For Your Pleasure

You Know What I'm Sick of?

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 16:23:32 -0400

Writers that continue to write snarky reviews of True Blood for the amusement of other snarksters! It’s very clear that you were vehemently against the show from the beginning and were far too cool to take pleasure in its swampy, campy, gothic eroticism of the undead. Like Tru Blood itself, it’s an acquired taste. If you don’t like it, you don’t like it. But seriously, is it necessary for y’all to keep reminding everyone how much you don’t like it, how silly and preposterous the show is and how adept you are at mocking it? It takes a lot more to discuss the show on its own terms than it does to take cheap and easy shots at its obviously (and intentionally) “ridiculous” plot points. I mean, how difficult can it be to deride copulating shape shifters, demonic orgies involving pigs, Southern white trash accents, and vampire-human love triangles?

That is all.

No, wait: I really wish that next week’s episode was called “The Blond Bleeding the Blond” or I’d even settle for “The Blond Leading the Blond” just as long as it amusingly referred somehow to the sexual tension between Eric and Sookie as well as “Vanilla Pudding” and the other Stackhouse. Apparently, the episode is called “Release, Me”. Snooze…and this week’s episode totally should have been called “Meet Your Maker”.

OK, now I’m done.

perpetua: I’m pretty sure that I could listen to Natasha Khan...

Sat, 25 Jul 2009 16:27:06 -0400

perpetua:

I’m pretty sure that I could listen to Natasha Khan talk all day long. I especially enjoy the tangent about her work as a teacher, and her thoughts about education.

I’m pretty sure that I could be bffs with Natasha Khan. I agree with her ideas on the importance of play and freedom in a child’s education. She knows her stuff! Education definitely needs to move towards being more child-centered and focus on discovery and spontaneity as opposed to a rigid linearity towards certain outcomes that society deems “successful”. There are a lot of teachers out there working to make this a reality for all students and not just a privileged subset. It’s good to know that I don’t have to fit some mold of what an elementary school teacher should be. Obviously I will never be as devastatingly cool as Khan, but I also don’t have to feel the pressure to conform and wear dowdy cardigans either.

Call me, Natasha! I love Prince, The Bangles and 80s music, too. And I am all about the mixing of dark and light elements in art. I am not a brilliant musician or artist, but I would say I’m pretty cool.

Go Ahead With Your Own Life aka The Pierogi Incident

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 15:35:06 -0400

I was just downstairs at my workplace cafeteria. The options were minimal and all laden with a combination of starch, grease and those invisible yet, obviously, unhealthy additives that smell so delicious. I chose the pierogies with scallion sour cream and spiced applesauce. It was a matter of whittling down to the lesser evil. The cheesesteak, although mighty enticing, was oozing oily bubbles and when the amiable fellow manning the grill station would ask if I wanted fries—as he always did— with that cheesesteak, I wouldn’t be able to turn down his offer as such a response would seem the equivalent of not returning his smile or, worse, an eyeroll. The other option, the grilled salmon seemed rather inoffensive, if not bland, but came with a perfectly square side of panko-encrusted macaroni-n-cheese. Only they weren’t calling it mac-n-cheese; its label euphemistically referred to it as “pasta and cheddar cheese.” I was immediately overcome with guilt for even considering such a decadent side dish. So, I shoveled the pierogies into my plastic container and buttressed them with two solid partitions of an apples/carrots/dill mixture and a cabbage salad.

Once in line, the man behind me snidely remarked in a nasal tone, “They have pierogies today? That’s interesting.” This bespectacled and annoyingly curious man looked down his nose at me as he said this. Then I noticed the two girls in front of me had their own plastic containers. However, their containers resembled what you would place in a small turtle’s tank: two shreds of lettuce, a carrot, three beans just to see if the turtle enjoys them. This is not a hyperbolic statement made for the sake of being clever and/or snarky. Both also had diet sodas. They took one look at my lusty container, raised their eyebrows and then proceeded to flagrantly deride my lunch option with some choice giggling and conspiring with hateful eyes. One mouthed to the other: “I know. Can you believe they serve that?” I could only assume this was directed towards me.

Of course, the cafeteria experience always makes me paranoid. In college, I used to fret about ordering the meat option in front of the proselytizing vegans. Now I am burdened with guilt in front of well-informed, health-conscious dieters with both will power and knowledge on their side. I have just replaced fear with fear. I can either be confident about my, overall, healthy eating habits and unapologetically indulge in my culinary whims, or I can turn the tables and bully these self-righteous meager eaters by dousing their faces in vats of ranch, mayo, and sour cream. In this instance, I just politely paid for my satisfying meal and headed towards the elevator with Billy Joel in my head, whipping me into a self-assured frenzy as he is wont to do.*

I wouldn’t consider myself a Billy Joel fan, but this song always does the trick whenever I feel as though my life choices are being mocked, questioned, or ignored.

Rainbow's End

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 13:32:00 -0400

I am not sure what the consensus is on this song and I am not sure if I care: “Seven Wonders” is, hands down, my favorite Fleetwood Mac tune. It’s at once breezy and nostalgic, brimming with both hope and resignation. The way Stevie stresses both “hope” and pray” as she sings “If I hope and if I pray/Ooooooh it might work out someday” tingles my spine every time. It never fails to capture the veiled beauty lingering in those regrets we all have of the romantic kind. There’s also a stubborn idealism dwelling in that airy, mythical language our Stevie is so fond of using. The basic gist of the song is this: Stevie is gonna work all her magic in order to see those “seven wonders” (the mystical, ubercool version of a Bucket List or sowing one’s oats) and then she’ll be ready to settle down at the rainbow’s end. We all want to reach the “rainbow’s end” on our own terms—whether or not it symbolizes Lindsey Buckingham (who was gearing up to leave the band at the time of the song’s recording) or a sense of contentment at our life’s nadir, it doesn’t really matter. Even if we can’t decipher the words embedded in Stevie’s unique lyrical cadences, we feel the emotion. Listening to “Seven Wonders” can transform chopping vegetables for your summer pico de gallo into a rather sentimental experience. You’ve been warned. P.S. I heard this and I think it literally butchers the undulating calm and urgency that made the original.

"One indication of the film’s thinness is that Summer has no such professional or creative pursuits —..."

Fri, 17 Jul 2009 13:39:08 -0400

“One indication of the film’s thinness is that Summer has no such professional or creative pursuits — she’s the assistant to Tom’s boss (Clark Gregg) — and no identifiable passions, friends or characteristics other than her heart-stopping desirability and her vintage-y dresses. Ms. Deschanel excels at playing this kind of cute, quasi-bohemian crush object, but after “Elf” and “Yes Man” and “All the Real Girls” it would be nice if some smitten filmmaker would write her a fully developed, less passive part.”

- A.O. Scott makes an incisive point. Loved All the Real Girls, but I’ve had my fill of wide eyes and hairbows. And that god-awful cotton commercial! Zooey, you make it hard for me not to hate you. I don’t want you to be another full-banged pixie who likes old records, the ukelele, flea markets and baking. I think we’ve reached our quota with that type.

We Ain't Born Typical: The Abridged Story of Alison Mosshart

Fri, 17 Jul 2009 12:59:25 -0400

The powers of reinvention have been kind to Alison Mosshart. I like to consider her my own personal Velvet Goldmine. Let me explain:

Mosshart was once, not too long ago, a cute pop/punk vocalist for local Florida band, Discount. Losing the boyish hair and baby fat, Mosshart in a matter of years has become virtually unrecognizable as the vampy frontwoman of The Kills and now The Dead Weather. She’s even become something of a fashion icon with her inky, perpetually windblown hair covering any reminder of what used to be and her cheekbones that look crudely carved due to hard years spent chain smoking, pub crawling and rabble-rousing overseas. She’s replaced the thrift store casual duds with designer skinnies and gold Dior booties. Her Florida social circle replaced with Jamie, Jack and Kate.

Mosshart/VV, in this scenario, is analogous to the Brian Slade/Maxwell Demon character. For those who aren’t familiar, in Todd Hayne’s cult film, Slade (Jonathan Rhys Meyers) starts out as an androgynous, mediocre folk singer and transforms himself into a glam god seemingly overnight. In actuality the impetus for this change come in the form of an Iggy Pop clone, Curt Wylde, played by Ewan McGregor. After reaching a dazzling pinnacle of success, Slade is killed onstage and later an 80s rock superstar named Tommy Stone emerges who may or not be Slade inhabiting yet another new persona. Glam fan since adolescence and reporter Arthur Stuart (Christian Bale) desperately seeks out the truth about the Brian Slade narrative as part of a journalistic assignment, but mostly out of a personal need to make sense of his own past.

If you demolish the glam rock historical framework, it almost works. One could view the Curt Wylde character as a Jack White/Jamie Hince amalgam that inspires Mosshart to abandon her palatable punk roots for something darker and dangerous. Like Slade, she adopts a new moniker to work with this edgier persona and thereby distances herself from her past. Mosshart has carefully crafted an aesthetic for herself and surrounds herself with those who’ve done the same—most recently, Jack White. It will be interesting to see whether Mosshart follows the Tommy Stone portion of Goldmine’s plot and “kills” herself yet again in order to assume another incarnation that is more autonomous than those previously assumed. I am not sure if Mosshart would succeed as a solo artist, but I would love to hear the results of such an audacious venture.

Like the diehard Slade fan/reporter character played by Christian Bale in Goldmine, I feel somehow tied up in Mosshart’s mythology. As a fellow small-town Florida native who’s been a fan of hers from the beginning, I both identify with her need for total transformation and am incredulous of it. Or maybe envious is a better term. While I also escaped Florida, albeit in a less glamorous way, I still possess some stubborn baby fat of my own and I don’t have a rock-n-roll lifestyle to conceal it with or a bunch of pretty, badass new friends. Nor did I every creatively pair up with some male rock dudes presumed by some to be “geniuses” that want nothing more than to make raw and dirty tunes with me. Since this is still a fantasy of mine, I am heavily fixated on Mosshart’s uncanny ability to make it her reality.

Q Train Omens

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 12:53:14 -0400

Based on my work commute this week, I have concluded the following:

When departing the train and arriving at your work destination, it is far better to be greeted by the sight of a dozen helium balloons that resemble shiny gumballs than the sight of a wild-eyed homeless man attempting to wash himself on the platform, disturbed by the sight of well-dressed onlookers assiduously going about their commute ritual and pretending they hadn’t witnessed his sad and vulnerable plight.

Things That Get Better With Age

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 12:23:24 -0400

1. Vampire blood, particularly that of the brawny, brooding, and dead-sexy Nordic variety. True Blood’s Eric Northman is the most fascinating character on television right now.

2. Roseanne re-runs prior to 1997 and/or the introduction of fake Becky.

Whenever I feel defensive, insecure, useless, hopeless. Whenever I want to take a dip in a piss-warm pool of schadenfreude, I turn on Roseanne instead. She and her blue collar brood remind me how funny, smart and incredibly real life can be when you aren’t in the upper tiers of the ivory tower or, better yet, you can’t see the ivory tower at all. I’d taking living with the Connors over shacking up with the Bass/Barts/Humphreys any day. Sometimes it’s better to stick with what you know than what you think you want.

3. Ron Howard’s Parenthood

Seriously , it’s a solid film that depicts a wide range of family situations and not one feels hackneyed or forced. Quite a feat considering the director. Also, it’s the last time we see Tom Hulce before he’s sucked into the vortex of obscurity. Also, young Joaquin and an adorably (keyword here: “adorably”) dim Keanu! Oh, and also: Martha Plimpton and the girl from Problem Child 2. This movie gets better with age because it consistently satisfies all one’s nostalgic desires in a very real and moving context.

4. This Guy:

"You can meditate away, but at bottom the movie is 97 minutes of Sam Rockwell jabbering to himself."

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 16:38:40 -0400

“You can meditate away, but at bottom the movie is 97 minutes of Sam Rockwell jabbering to himself.””

- Owen Gleiberman harping about Moon. Is this really a bad thing? I’d pay 12.50 to watch Sam Rockwell organize his silverware drawer. In a darkened well covered with feces and populated by frogs. And I really hate frogs.

Audio

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 16:18:31 -0400

Excerpt from forthcoming untitled Vincent D’Onofrio biography: Prior to joining the cast...

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 16:16:37 -0400

Excerpt from forthcoming untitled Vincent D’Onofrio biography:

Prior to joining the cast of esteemed crime drama Law & Order: Criminal Intent and even before his sensational turn as closeted superhero Thor/ gruff auto repair owner in Adventures in Babysitting, actor Vincent D’Onofrio had a clear artistic vision. Only his first time around, it involved playing the saxophone at Sweet Mama’s Biker Bar in Deland, Florida.

In 1983, Sweet Mama’s was a popular stop for burly hog enthusiasts and their raunchy women on the way to Daytona, the epicenter of biker debauchery. It was also the place D’ Onofrio chose to call home for 9 months before getting his first break as a struggling thespian. D’O intended to take a brief respite from the big city ratrace by living with relatives in Florida while gaining other life experiences that would further enrich his craft. His Uncle Leo owned Sweet Mama’s and offered Vince room and board in his sweet-ass beach condo in exchange for hired help at Mama’s full-time.

Vince looked at his indefinite time as a barback in a filthy dive as just another role in which he could fully immerse himself. Therefore, he did not cut his long, wavy tresses that he’d grown for nearly a year to play Valmont in Dangerous Liasons off-broadway. It was 1983, after all folks, and D’O knew that big hair would work to his advantage when catering to a rowdy crowd fond of Iron Maiden and Dio.

Which gave him another idea. What if he could channel his creative impulses somehow while on the job? That’s when he approached Uncle Leo about starting a house band.

At first Leo was skeptical. The wiry fellow with a mustardy handlebar mustache perched on dry lips and a coarse, salt-n-pepper ponytail cleared his throat. He then spit out a massive loogie into his Dixie cup designated for chew before responding to his nephew’s proposal.

“I don’t know, Vinny. House bands are usually just a bunch of shitty musicians doing shitty covers of shitty music. My patrons won’t stand for that sort of shit.”

“I promise you this will be different. I know what appeals to your redneck Florida beasts. I won’t let you down, Uncle.”

“It’s not me you need to worry about. Don’t come crying to me or your Aunt Vera when those filthy, stinky behemoths make marmalade out of your brains because they don’t like the fucking tunes you’re playing. That is not on me, boy.”

D’O. laughed heartily, took the keys to Leo’s pickup off of the bar counter and set out looking for some instruments and some players.

Uncle Leo spit again into his cup and shook his wizened head as the bar door closed.

Vince would return with three balding goons outfitted in blue jeans and bifocals that he found working at the local Sam Ash. Dave, Carl and Gene were Steely Dan Fans but also knew a lot of Crosby, Stills, and Nash tunes. While familiar with Sabbath and Kiss, they tended to keep away from the “newer shit out there.” All were technically brilliant but, creatively, formed a mediocre mess.

D’Onofrio had learned to play the saxophone during a summer stock adaptation of a Cortazar short story about Charlie Parker. He played fairly well and wished to incorporate the instrument into his fledgling band’s sound.

The Sweet Mama’s house band played their first show three weeks after Vince’s initial talk with Uncle Leo. It was a Friday night. The bar was packed with whiskey guzzling ne’er do wells, pool sharks, dope fiends, hapless losers, mouthy, wiry fellows on amphetamines, and garden-variety 80s floozies. Only one non-floozie stood in this bunch of revelers. Her name was Dusty Fitzsimmons, D’Onofrio’s first love.

They’d met at the Jersey Shore one summer and had their first kiss after noshing on some funnel cake. D’Onofrio went back to the shore every weekend for some more Dusty and carnival snacks until he couldn’t stomach it anymore. One night he fled as Dusty rode the Tilt-A-Whirl. As she spun violently around next to some sticky-mouthed whippersnapper, Dusty saw D’Onofrio make a run for it, funnel cake still in hand.

She never forgave him. He never forgave himself. He was young, stupid and still holding out for Jane Fonda or some other Tinseltown beauty to sharpen his craft. Dusty was cute but dim. Her feathered hair a rusty tinge of blonde, her eyeliner too crude and blue, her mouth just a little too glossy and expectant. Vince was destined for better things. Or so he thought. After nearly a month in Florida, he’d become accustomed to its unrefined beauty, the inviting barbarism of its denizens, the simple luxury of sipping a perspiring cold one at sunset. He now thought he had been asking for too much. It wouldn’t be so bad to be the frontman/saxophone player in Sweet Mama’s house band until whenever. Not too bad at all.

“I dedicate this song to a Dusty Fitzsimmons,” Vince muttered, hulking over the microphone, before the band launched into Quarterflash’s “Harden My Heart.”

Each melancholy note Vincent blew on his sax pained the soft, sweet heart of Dusty. She put her warm beer down as her liquid eyeliner formed sea green rivulets through the cakey terrain of her rouged cheeks.

He bellowed in his gravelly voice, “I’m gonna harden my heart/I’m gonna swallow my tears” with such raw emotion that the rough-n-tumble crowd watched in rapt attention.

“I always thought this was a killer song,” a bearded maniac whispered to his buddy.

The song came to a close. D’O tossed his hair as he looked out into the crowd and recognized a familiar face. No expression registered. His acting coach always said he was convincing when it came to portraying the stoic figure. DUSTY FITZSIMMONS! SHE WAS HERE! perhaps comprised his inner monologue at that moment.

Vince could barely get through the rest of the set. By the time he reached the encore of “Southern Cross”, his mind could only behold the image of a young Dusty with powdered sugar at the corner of her lips taking her place on the Tilt-A-Whirl, so trusting and innocent.

(Page Missing)

A midnight boat ride on a local canal a few weeks later would prove deadly for Dusty. Falling overboard after too many Tequila Sunrises, she would fatefully become the repast of some malnourished alligators. Vincent would bear witness to this gruesome tragedy and later channel this immense darkness in his haunting performance as Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket.

Vh1 Inspired Musings

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 14:24:10 -0400

You know that you’ve been fully indoctrinated into the pop culture cesspool of reality television when you view London’s triumphant return to Daisy of Love as irrefutable evidence that it is possible for reality courtships to surpass mere versimiltude and attain a sweet authenticity albeit between two scumbags. You are absolutely beyond redemption when you find yourself thanking Riki Rachtman for making this sordid love connection possible.

Girl, Interrupted

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 13:36:48 -0400

I don’t have much time to write on here presently, but I took some time today to document my deep, deep distaste for the sound of flip-floppy shoes walking past my cubicle door. Flip-flops are not made for such purposeful, office-bound gaits. It’s a revolting paradox in action. And I don’t really like flip-flops in any setting…There they go again, plodding past, pair after pair of stupid, noisy sandals…

Keep on With the Force, Don't Stop

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 13:03:21 -0400

Michael Jackson: I should have told you earlier, much earlier, that you inspired me to dance. Not professionally although I had entertained thoughts of that as well. But just to dance. Freely. Wholly. Without thinking about where my feet were leading. Without thinking about anything.

There’s VHS tape of an age 3 me dancing to Thriller in its entirety. My brother, a chubby infant, desperately tries to keep up. I take out the pacifier once in awhile to lip synch to “Billie Jean”. I was going to be a star! My whole family loved you. It goes without saying that I loved you the most.

I forgive you for terrifying me with your gaunt, bug-eyed pea-green undead face in the “Thriller” video. Visions of zombies at my window haunted me for way too long than its appropriate to admit. I had begged my father to rent the video and when he finally relented, I begged him to turn it off through my tears. My mother always explained it was just a mask, makeup. It wasn’t you. It always helped to watch the behind-the-scenes where the makeup artists caked you in the creepy paints and prosthetics while you laughed blithely.

I stuck with you through Bad and Dangerous, even when mom and dad said you were getting weirder with the elephant man’s bones, luminescent skin and all. We lost touch in 1994. I had a lot going on: puberty, boys, parent’s divorce, loss. But I’d hear your songs on the radio and always turn them up.

In college, you made a triumphant return. All those crazy kids loved dancing to your hits in the courtyard. And they did so sincerely without a petty, intellectual thought in their heads. That’s the best kind of dancing—when you get away from yourself but somehow become more “you” than you’ve ever been.

It’s true. I was never your biggest fan. But you were my first musical love, forever a part of my history.

When the news broke, I thought back to how you had sparked my initial love of dancing and how I can always depend on a few rhythmic steps to elevate my mood and make me feel like myself again. I am forever indebted to your otherworldly, impossibly awesome, incredibly soul-soaring, amazingly unbelievable, fancy-schmancy footwork. Without you, I might not have learned where your body can take you.

Jody Hill's Sick, Sad World

Fri, 10 Apr 2009 16:19:00 -0400

Ever since first seeing Foot Fist Way, I’ve been struggling with how I view newcomer Jody Hill’s ability to mock the most depressing aspects of American culture. I recognized people that I knew and even liked in his “comedy” about a slovenly, miserable strip mall karate instructor. This made me feel guilty and unclean. And even though I was laughing throughout, I felt overwhelmed by my familiarity with this sad, sad character’s tacky attempts to garner respect and adulation from overweight kids and sleazy B-movie action stars. It put me right back in the rotting heart of Florida painted over in pastel hues, so no one would notice the sickness at its core. Beneath FFW’s patina of jokes lies something dark and sinister. And I think Hill wants us to respond with an unsettling visceral reaction to this more than he wants us to laugh.

I viewed his HBO show Eastbound and Down with similar ambivalence. Kenny Powers is a larger-than-life asshole but he isn’t exactly hyperbolic enough to remove him from reality. In fact, it is his love of big tits, cocaine and jet skis that render him the most realistic depiction of your average small-town pathetic loser since…well, since FFW’s Fred Simmons. It’s mortifying to realize that you knew/know someone like Kenny Powers and might even have humored the guy by sharing a beer or two with him. I want to laugh at Powers’ willful ignorance but I already feel implicated. There isn’t that distance between the characters and me that I usually maintain when watching a comedy.

And now there is the whole date rape controversy surrounding Hill’s new film, Observe and Report. What exactly are Hill’s intentions? How much does he like his boorish antiheroes? How much does he identify with them? Why can’t the female characters be despicable in a way that doesn’t exploit their sexuality? The whole Taxi Driver-as-comedy idea seems innovative, but wouldn’t Travis Bickle have blown away a date rapist? If we view laughter as the death of an emotion, what does this mean when viewing this scene?

I haven’t seen the film yet, but as you can guess I already feel seriously ambivalent about it. I think it’s difficult for Hill to present these ugly truths as something to be experienced cathartically (if that’s even what he is doing). Ultimately, when you have a rapist onscreen in a comedy, it will look somehow as if you are condoning if not glorifying that behavior because the audience is already expecting to be amused by the actions of the protagonist, or in this case the anti-protagonist played by Seth Rogen. When presented with the image of a sweaty Rogen pumping over Anna Faris’s drugged-up cosmetics counter skank, I can imagine the audience will be bemused but not amused. So, what is Hill really after: cheap laughs, cheap provocation or is he fostering the metacognition of what it means to laugh at these sort of things, these sort of dark and twisted things that aren’t just the stuff of melodrama or fiction? I obviously have no clue. But part of me wants to keep watching to find out.

The Great Rock-n-Roll Hot Sauce Challenge

Wed, 25 Feb 2009 08:56:00 -0500

Two of my favorite things in life are larger-than-life male rock stars and smokin’ hot hot sauces. Hence, when the two were combined by a few entrepreneurial musicians, it was only a matter of time before I committed myself to a road test of their infernal creations. So without further adieu, I will taste hot sauces by Aerosmith’s Joe Perry, Van Halen’s Michael Anthony and the Lynyrd Skynyrd crew and relay to you my findings and, possibly, some other random insights.

Let’s Take a Look at His “Package”

Joe Perry’s Boneyard Brew looks rather generic. The guitar player shown on the label is indiscernible as Joe Perry himself. It could be any average Joe and this lack of clarity regarding Perry’s visage does his product a great disservice. When partaking in Perry’s sauce, we, meaning the female consumer, want to see the sultry dark eyes looming behind that sexy, tousled mess of hair. Also, “Boneyard Brew”? Sounds like a BBQ sauce created by some sad sack, not the spicy condiment of a bonafide rock god.

Based on appearance alone, Mike Anthony’s Mad Anthony’s XXXtra Hot hot sauce seems like it is seriously overcompensating for the rather minor and subordinate (re: bitch) role Anthony played in Van Halen. Hey, I’m not saying it was right, but that’s the way it is. He seems so desperate to prove that he isn’t just one of the boys; he’s the ultimate man providing the most diabolical, most depraved and ruthlessly hardcore hot sauce on the market. This explains why the bottle looms over the other contenders in terms of height. Also the name of the hot sauce is troubling. The XXX wordplay is silly and puerile and the three habanero peppers lassoed by a blatant rip-off of the Van Halen logo is corny not to mention sad. It’s little wonder why Eddie allegedly booted Anthony over his hot sauce enterprise. At first glance of the bottle, I would’ve been embarrassed too since its misguided egoism is far more cringe-worthy than anything Diamond Dave ever attempted. And as a lover of the underdog, I had really wanted to champion lil’ Mikey.

Lynyrd Skynyrd actually represents their product, a Habanero hot sauce, in a savvy way that incorporates the band’s image without resorting to tired “Free Bird” references. The image of the Rebel flag as the head of a raging bull with feathers (!) decorating the horns unabashedly plays up the band’s Southern roots transforming their brand into accessible, bad-ass aestheticism. The flames encircling the band’s name are the perfect finishing touch to the literal, no-frills interpretation of a hot sauce made by the boys of Skynyrd. It meets our expectations, which is more than the other two contenders managed.

The First Taste

Boneyard Brew is a smoky mélange of habanero and chipotle peppers with tangy undertones of fresh lime juice …and what is that I taste? The taste of sweet perspiration beading on an open chest as the bluesy guitar solo in “Rag Doll” hits its seductive groove? Oh, no. It’s actually Xanthum Gum. Still, this sauce provides a potent punch of flavor that is a pleasant departure from the garden-variety of straightforward pepper –n-vinegar mixtures out there. And I say that as a hot sauce enthusiast whose preference usually leans towards the classics a la Tabasco.

You know those old Pace Picante commercials with the cowboys sitting around the campfire and one asks if anyone has any salsa. And some doofy cow roper hands him some vomitous canned shit he calls salsa and when the doof reveals where it was made, the whole posse of wranglers scoff in disbelief, “NEW YORK CITY?” Well, that’s what Mad Anthony’s tastes like. Canned salsa that’s all chunks of tomato and no bite. There’s plenty of heat, but absolutely no complexity. The texture does not suit a Michelada well and if I wanted pico de gallo in my taco, I would make it myself. I am not one to chew my hot sauce. Then again, maybe I am just not “Mad” or man enough.

Lynyrd Skynyrd’s hot sauce contribution offers nothing that the host of wing sauces and marinades that overcrowd the grocery stores haven’t covered. The acid with just a tinge of heat does the trick, but it’s quite underwhelming compared to the band’s fiery musical repertoire. This sauce is sorely lacking the brio of “What’s Your Name” or the cahones of “Give Me Three Steps.”

Eatin’ Their Words

Joe Perry says: My goal is to produce original recipes using only natural fresh ingredients. My family and I take extra time and care to provide the finest quality foods available. If it’s not something in our pantry, it’s not in our products. All the best, Joe Perry

This intimate message conveys Perry’s simple and unassuming approach to his business endeavor. It’s rather charming and domesticated. But cheers to him for showing another side of himself.

Michael Anthony says: Time to separate the men from the boys! Turn your favorite meal into a five-alarm inferno with Mad Anthony’s XXXtra Hot Private Reserve. And don’t forget to have the Fire Dept. on speed dial! - Michael Anthony

Give it up, Anthony! Seriously: you’l l never be “runnin’ with the devil.” The most you can hope for is a jog with someone’s evil mother-in-law! Accept your fate as the wingman, the Baxter, the straight man. There’s nothing wrong with this role; it’s vital, it’s necessary, goddamn it, it’s yours to own!

Lynyrd Skynyrd chose to have their hot sauce speak for itself. I can’t decide if this was a bad call or not. On the one hand, it’s admirably bold not to make any claims for your product. But when your hot sauce is rather lackluster, it might help to have some down-home country, wise-ass boastings to distract you from the banality of your tasting experience.

Crankin’ it up to 10: the Heat Index

Joe Perry’s heat isn’t felt until the end and that’s just how I like it. He isn’t going to give it all upfront; he makes you work for it. It’s a slow burn that lingers just long enough for one to savor it fully.

Mike Anthony overpowers with the heat factor. His sauce has all the fire of a mild pepper taste that persists long after desired. He’s unrelenting in his pursuit to make you taste his potency. And that’s just wrong. Very wrong.

Lynyrd Skynyrd provides a fickle flame on the taste buds. This bird has flown the coop before it’s even landed. Yes, when you fail to provide the heat, you’re due a trite “Freebird” allusion.

The “Greatest Hit” to the Tastebuds?

Joe Perry’s Boneyard Brew. It has an authentic flavor, doesn’t make empty promises and gives you that warm and pleasant feeling long after your meal has ended. It’ll take you straight to the other side and you won’t wanna come back. Forget Bret Michaels, Perry and his poorly-named hot sauce are here to rock your world.

Take a Look at Me Now

Sat, 07 Feb 2009 13:44:53 -0500

Take a Look at Me Now

Mad Dreams

Thu, 22 Jan 2009 12:02:28 -0500

Last night’s dream:

Jon Hamm takes my arm at a party as if we are going for a stroll in a 19th century garden, but we are actually at some bizarro hotel banquet.

JH: So, what do you think of Heidegger?

Me: I’ve only read The Question Concerning Technology.

JH: And what did you think?

Me: I thought it was muddled.

JH: I agree.

Something Wilder

Tue, 20 Jan 2009 17:17:00 -0500

I wish I was a Jonathan Demme heroine from his 80’s screwball period. I want to take up residence in the director’s technicolor, melting pot urban landscapes, a free spirit on the run from forces of conformity or violence charming the world with my ecletic downtown wardrobe, a coquettish smile and my unwavering belief that a world gone mad is a world I can live in proudly.

Married to the Mob’s Angela de Marco and Something Wild’s Audrey “Lulu” Hankel are two comely brunettes (one natural, one false) fond of utilizing the shimmering, rouge-y, lacquered effects of drugstore cosmetics and incorporating animal print into their attire. The silvery sound of costume jewelry marks both their entrance into a scene and represents the dazzling, hypnotic way they captivate the audience and anyone they encounter within the film’s confines. They live at full volume just to drown out the sounds that plague them, that stifle them, that keep them from truly being heard. Usually, this antagonistic silence is embodied by a dim-witted and volatile hood, all oily smirks and blackmailing lechery.

With the help of the thug’s foil—a mousy, conservative type with boyish looks and good hair, who’s in desperate need of some dirty fun—Demme’s new wave femme fatales drop the artifice, attempt to rid themselves of greasy crimelords (sometimes resorting to lethal means) and then etch out their own space in the city that affords them autonomy, security and self-respect. And yes, they invariably return the amorous feelings of the well-meaning Mr. Milquetoast at the end. This I can overlook as the romantic ending is usually accompanied by a really great Tom Tom Club or reggae song.

I’d mostly like to reside in these narratives because I could strut through the L.E.S. circa 1986 wearing an awesome wig and edgy accessories, leading a dangerous double life accompanied by the music of New Order, The Motels, or The Feelies. 2009 promises to be an incredible year, but this fictional era in cinema comes in a close second for me.

Q: Are these female characters just a more mature version of the MPDG (Manic Pixie Dream Girl)? I’d like to think that the presence of an actual character arc renders them more than just a male yuppie fantasy.

It’s videos like this that make me pine for MTV’s...

Thu, 15 Jan 2009 18:05:00 -0500

It’s videos like this that make me pine for MTV’s golden years. A time when pretty bands didn’t just settle for being pretty, but toyed around with their own aesthetic by making it full-blown cinematic. The Human League’s video for “Love Action (I Believe in Love)” offhandedly pays homage to The Graduate with Phil Oakey starring as a New Romantic Benjamin Braddock, but in this incarnation there’s a lot more posing and pouting involved. And he’s not the only group member to delve into the histrionics with gusto. Female vocalist Susan Ann Sulley is shown throwing vases and other objects at the camera during presumably what is a lover’s quarrel. It’s also interesting how the video deals with these different layers of voyeurism and who’s being watched when and who’s doing the watching through the overriding theme of romance-fueled espionage and then having all the band members meet at the end of the video in a screening room gazing at the projected iconic images of Marilyn Monroe and her famous paramours. (Too good!) Aligning themselves with old Hollywood this way, The Human League position themselves at the heart of the spectacle—just where they should be.